Former Glory
by ineffablepenguin
Summary: Wherein Aziraphale and Crowley come face to face with their pasts. {Part 4 of my Ineffable Husbands series, from Crowley's perspective. For Pt 1 see "Ineffably Inevitable"}


Crowley lounged in his chair by the fireplace, contentedly basking in the heat of the flames and the aftermath of another good day. The glass of wine he had just drunk was a ball of expanding warmth in his stomach, and he was looking forward to the dinner reservation they had set for later that night.

He had his chin propped on one fist as he watched Aziraphale working at his desk. The pale-haired angel was currently bent over a large ledger book, making meticulous little notes on the page with the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. An empty wine glass of his own was at his elbow, and his mild brow was scrunched in concentration above his spectacles.

He was also wholly unaware of Crowley's scrutiny, but that was hardly surprising. Aziraphale was Aziraphale.

Crowley never tired of watching him; after so many years of longing and careful restraint this new freedom was incredible. Part of him still struggled to believe it was real. Pain and despair had twisted like splinters under his skin for so long that the sudden absence was dizzying. He hardly recognized himself without them, but that was far more of a gain than a loss. Being with Aziraphale was like a hot compress against a wound, drawing out the poison, and after a month of this he was growing accustomed to the sense of buoyancy in his chest.

Crowley blinked sleepily, feeling the warm glow of both wine and love softening his wits as his gaze lingered on Aziraphale's face.

Love. The word still made his palms sweat. He'd locked that word away with an iron key out of sheer self-preservation. But love was what he felt when he looked at his angel- what he had always felt, though he had refused to name it even in the privacy of his own thoughts. Until now.

All at once looking wasn't enough. He stood and walked up behind Aziraphale, leaning down to wrap both arms over his shoulders. He brushed his lips slowly over the blonde hair at the nape of his neck, and the angel shifted in his seat.

"Mmmh. Stop it, I'm trying to finish this before dinner and you're distracting me." The words lost most of their impact as Aziraphale smiled, and one hand moved up to cover his own.

"I like distracting you," Crowley murmured. He rested his chin on the angel's shoulder and whispered, very close to his ear, "I think you should just give in to temptation."

"Oh, good Lord." Aziraphale snorted and gave him a light shove away, looking amused regardless. "Why don't you go get us some more wine, you wily thing."

Grinning, Crowley straightened and headed down the hall to the little wine cellar, a jaunty bounce in his step. This room had not been in the original building design, but was a newer addition. A miraculously new addition, in fact; they had found they needed the extra space to store their combined wine collection more than they needed shop space. He browsed unhurriedly through the impressive selection of bottles, trying to decide which one Aziraphale would enjoy most. He caught himself humming and quickly stopped before he lost all dignity completely.

He was so engrossed in thoughts about the next few hours that he didn't see the dark figure lurking in the shadows, not until it loomed out directly in front of him.

Ink-black eyes glared at him, looking like dark pits in the deathly pale face.

"Hastur!" Crowley exclaimed. His heart had leapt into his throat with a tremendous jolt, but he quickly pulled himself together. It was unwise to show any sort of fear in front of senior demons, they could smell weakness like sharks could sense blood. He swallowed. "Long time no see! The hair looks good. How's it hanging in Hell?"

"Crawley." Hastur was looking at him with the utmost disgust. "So it's true. I had to come and see it for myself."

"It's 'Crowley', actually." He took a wary step backwards.

Hastur's lip curled. "They were saying downstairs that you're up here _cavorting_ with an angel," he sneered. "Seems they were right. I shoulda known when you went changing your name that you'd forgot who you are. You really have gone off the far end."

Crowley folded his arms and stared at him flatly. "I have nothing to say to any of you. Our business is ended. Thanks for stopping by, now get out of my house."

Hastur's scowl deepened into hatred, and he stepped close. His breath smelled like mildew and rot. "You and I have unfinished personal business," he hissed. "For Ligur."

"The hell we do," Crowley spat back at him, angry now. "Leave me alone unless you want a reminder of what happened to him." He began to back towards the door, but a clammy hand shot out and seized him around the throat. He jerked and struggled to break free, but Hastur barely seemed to notice. Crowley felt the first traces of panic; he could out-scheme the best of them, but in a contest of brute strength any demon of rank could take him, and Hastur was a Duke of Hell. The black eyes narrowed as he squeezed harder, cutting off his air.

"I still owe you for that. And since Head Office durnt _care_ what happens to you anymore, there's nothing to stop me from teaching you a lesson, is there?"

"Urk," said Crowley. Unbelievable, he thought. He had allowed the dumbest demon in Hell to get the drop on him. He would never live this down, if he lived at all. He twisted against the grip, to no noticeable effect.

"Pathetic bastard," Hastur continued. "Did you think you could fuck your way back into Heaven's good graces? Maybe I can't give you the traitor's death you deserve, but I don't need holy water to destroy this body you love so much." He slammed Crowley against the wall with casual strength. "Humans are so fragile, aren't they?" He slammed his head against the wall again, causing stars to explode before Crowley's eyes, then clamped his other hand around his throat as well.

"I think I'll just stand here and enjoy watching you squirm to death like the snake you are." Hastur's fingers tightened into a steely vise, and Crowley's vision started to dance with red spots as the edges of darkness crept in. He thrashed desperately and scrabbled at the grasping hands, but Hastur had a mad gleam in his eye and bore down with brutal strength. Crowley felt his windpipe crunch.

There was a blinding flash of silver-white light. Hastur's hands were abruptly torn from his neck as he was flung violently away from him to sprawl in a heap. Choking and gasping for air, Crowley collapsed to the ground, writhing and clutching at his neck. Wheezing, he rolled onto his side and raised his throbbing head to see what was happening.

Aziraphale was standing there in the doorway, lowering his outstretched hand.

"You will _not_ hurt him." It sounded nothing like Aziraphale's voice. There was a cold rage in his gentle face that Crowley had never seen before, and despite the tartan bow tie and reading glasses still perched on his nose he looked nothing at all like a mild-mannered shopkeeper. He seemed taller, and a nimbus of vivid, razor-sharp light radiated from every inch of his body. It filled the little room, driving out all shadows before it.

Aziraphale stood tall before the prone Hastur with eyes blazing, and he was the Angel of the Eastern Gate once again.

He stepped deliberately forward in his brown leather dress shoes, the shining presence intensifying to an almost _physical_ weight as he did. Hastur scrabbled backwards on all fours, mouth agape, desperate to put space between himself and that deadly humming power. He fetched up against the wall and stared at Aziraphale with undisguised horror.

"You shall not hurt him." Aziraphale said again, his voice as icy and immovable as a glacier. His soft fists were clenched with anger, and as he took another step forward he grew almost too bright to look at. From the way Hastur cried out and and cowered away, shielding his eyes, the effect must have been much more intense on him.

The angel's voice lashed out like a whip, resonating with authority. "Be GONE, and never return here again, or I will wreak such vengeance upon you as you cannot imagine." He took another furious step, and the light seemed to stretch towards the demon.

Hastur stared up at him from against the wall, face contorted in terror and hatred, then snarled a word. The wood floor opened beneath him and he sank swiftly away, the hole closing after him to leave no trace. The cellar was quiet once again.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and exhaled a long, slow breath, his shoulders slumping forward. The terrible sharp brilliance gradually dwindled and faded away to nothing, until it was just him standing there in his ordinary tidy clothes and rumpled hair, hands hanging limp at his sides. He looked very, very weary.

A moment later he gasped and whirled in a panic.

"My dear, oh my God, Crowley, are you alright?" he cried out as he rushed over. Fear and distress was written all over his face, and he was abruptly Aziraphale the bookseller again. He fell to his knees and bent over him, expression aghast. "What did he do to you? Don't move, darling; let me see so I can heal it." He pried away Crowley's hands, which were still clutching uselessly at his throat, and examined the bruised skin. He placed his own palm there, and Crowley felt the pain fade swiftly as the cartilage popped back into place. He sucked in a deep breath at last, feeling dizzy with relief and fresh oxygen. He lay there gasping, and for a moment could only stare at Aziraphale, as awed as Hastur had been.

"Oh, _don't_ look at me that way. It was just- just a bit of nonsense." The angel was still running his hands over him, checking frantically for other damage. He peered into his eyes and grimaced. "You have a concussion." He pressed a gentle kiss to Crowley's forehead, and the sick sense of disorientation faded away as well.

"Argh," he groaned, sitting up and massaging his neck. His voice was rough. "That was stupid. My own fault, I shouldn't have let him take me by surprise like that." His heart was still pounding from adrenaline and relief both, and he was having a hard time concealing his own distress.

Aziraphale let out a sound between a laugh and a sob and threw his arms around him, holding onto him like he would disappear. "You idiot. Never, _ever_ scare me like that again."

Crowley held him just as tightly, stroking his back and murmuring assurances. "I'm ok. I'm ok. I'm sorry." He huffed out an exasperated noise. "I should've known that was coming. Hastur always was too stubborn to leave well enough alone." He chuckled, remembering. "For what it's worth, I think you scared him at least as much." He pulled back slightly and looked Aziraphale in the face. "You saved me."

Azuraphale smiled weakly and looked down, eyes glistening and rather red-rimmed. "Well. You've saved me every other time. It was my turn."

"You were wonderful," Crowley said softly. "He won't try that again here, that's for damned sure." He was about to say something more, but at seeing Aziraphale's obvious discomfort he stopped. He reached over instead and pulled a bottle at random off the nearest shelf. "Look- I got our wine."

Aziraphale laughed at that, his expression clearing, and suddenly all was right in the world again.

Crowley ran a thumb down the angel's cheek and marveled for the thousandth time that he was his; this remarkable creature that cared so very much about so very much, who had defied his peers, who had chosen a life of simple pleasures and human company over all that Heaven had to offer.

Aziraphale's smile brightened, deepening the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He pushed himself to his feet and straightened his waistcoat. Reaching out, he took Crowley's hand. His fingers were soft and warm and steady.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go have dinner."

* * *

_._

_"There are three things all wise men fear:_  
_the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man."_  
-Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear


End file.
